He stood facing him in the hall, no part of him moving except his mouth. “She says I treated her like a brute. I don't think I did. She says there was something I did one night--I don't know. I've never done anything--I've never been with another woman--something about a cab--Perhaps it was poor Rose Bennett. Poor Rose Bennett--damned unhappy--so am I--so am I. I'm a lonely fellow--I always have been!” He went past Bobby, back into the little drawing-room. Bobby followed him. He turned round. “You can go now, Bobby. I shan't want you any more.” “No, I'm going to stay.” “I don't want you--I don't want any one.” “I'm going to stay.” “I'd rather you went, please.” “I'm going to stay.” Peter paid no more attention. He went and sat down on a chair by the window. Bobby sat down on a chair near him. Once Peter said: “They took my baby. They took my work. They've taken my wife. They're too much for me. I'm beaten.” Then there was absolute silence in the house. The servants, who had heard the tumbling of the furniture, crept, frightened to bed. Thus The Roundabout, dark, utterly without sound, stayed through the night. Once, from the chair by the window in the little drawing-room a voice said, “I'm going back to Scaw House--to my father. I'm going back--to all of them.” During many hours the little silver clock ticked cheerfully, seeing perhaps with its little bright eyes, the two dark figures and wondering what they did there. BOOK IV -- SCAW HOUSE CHAPTER I THE SEA I Peter Westcott was dead. They put his body into the 11.50 from Paddington. II It was a day of high, swinging winds, of dappled skies, of shining gleaming water. Bunches now and again of heavy black clouds clustered on the horizon, the cows and horses in the fields were sharply defined, standing out rigidly against a distant background. The sun came and was gone, laughed and was instantly hidden, turned the world from light to shadow and from shadow back to light again. Peter's body was alone in the compartment. It was propped up against red velvet that yielded with a hard, clenched resistance, something uncomfortable, had the body minded. The eyes of the body were the high blank windows of a deserted house. Behind them were rooms and passages, but lately so gaily crowded, so eager, with their lights and fires, for hustling life--now suddenly empty--swept of all its recent company, waiting for new, for very different inhabitants. The white hands motionless upon the knees, the eyes facing the light but blind, the body still against the velvet, throughout the long, long day.... III There were occasions when some one came and asked for his ticket. Some one came once and asked him whether “He would take lunch.” Once a woman, flushed and excited, laden with parcels, tumbled into his carriage and then, after a glance at the white face, tumbled out again.